The Alliance of Bum: Volume One – Artificial Homelessness

A distinction needs to be made. An act of stupidity is an unintentional faux pas, an accident which entails (frequently) comedic results. Conversely, an act of lunacy is fully premeditated, thought out, even calculated. And so, given this polarizing definition, I am clearly not stupid; rather, I am a proud lunatic.

The premise of our experiment was simple: I, along with two friends – let’s call them Michael and Annie – would cast aside the cluttered demands of the modern universe, renounce the bondage of our physical artifacts, turn our backs on the comfort of civility, and thoroughly study, firsthand, the lifestyle of the modern nomad, the solitary vagabond – the bum. We were, in essence, to become homeless.

Our “rules” were equally basic:

1) Our experiment had to take place in an urban environment. In no way should our philosophical quest be wrongfully construed as merely “camping.”

2) We were to appear in full bum attire. The integrity of our experiment would have instantly been lost had we worn our accustomed style of clothing, ripe with economic signifiers.

3) Lest we crumble during the misery of our first homeless night, our experiment could not be conducted in our home town. Caving in would have been too tempting with the lure of a warm bed only miles away.

4) We were to have only minimal relics from our current lives, limited solely to: one five dollar bill for the three of us, one can of Campbell’s chicken soup (with no opener), a lighter, and a disposal camera (smeared with dirt to look “authentic”).

5) We were to have only one safety net in the event we had any complications with the law: a ridiculously verbose “Bum Manifesto” outlining the parameters of our experiment and proving our status as regular (relatively speaking) civilians.

Preparations – Location:

Our first course of action was determining a suitable test site. Salem, OR (where we lived) was geographically improper for the aforementioned reasons. Portland was a bit too urban (plus, it already had its share of vagrants – we’d just vanish into the homeless woodwork). Albany was too rural. Corvallis felt too much like a typical college town, and we didn’t want our noble endeavor to be confused with a fraternity-based prank.

We settled on Eugene, OR. The summer climate would be perfect for street sleeping, wild berries and fruits would be in bloom, and the town was ideally bohemian. Plus, much like the famed London Fog, Eugene was enveloped by a perpetual miasma of weed-haze, which we figured would add to the atmosphere of the experiment. However, most Eugene locals themselves looked like homeless bums, what with their frequent brandishing of Caucasian-person-dreadlocks and grunge inspired sweaters. Thus, in order for us to appear as bums in full bum attire, our clothing choices needed to be bold, brash, and painfully obvious – in other words, well beyond the boundaries of the local neo/pseudo-hippie stylings.

Preparations – Clothing:

Perhaps “costume” is a more accurate word. Michael, Annie and I went to the local Good Will. Since we wanted our steps to resonate with the spirit of our forefathers we bought used, tattered shoes. Michael and I got torn jeans (the unstylish kind) that were intentionally too long. (We would later make belts for them out of knotty twine.) Annie deliberated over an awful yarn sweater. She ended up buying it after finding a moth cocoon in the right arm-pit. “This will be perfect,” she said sticking her finger through an insect-chewed hole, “for ventilation.”

All the clothes for the three of us ended up costing $8.00. Michael, being a gentleman, charged it on his American Express, which was not entirely in keeping with our bum ethos and would be strictly forbidden once our experiment began in proper.

Next we had to “prepare” the clothing. I put on a wife-beater and the new pants then proceeded to roll in the field beside my house. Unfortunately, it was summer and I was only able to conjure up a weak dusting. When a derelict appearance can’t come about naturally, it must be artificially induced. And thus it was clear: we needed paint. As if applying bug spray, we took turns misting each other with brownish spray paint the color of soil. We surveyed one another and concluded this wasn’t nearly enough.

We’d never be able to pull off the look of a well seasoned bum, weathered by the scratching of hard years and a reliance on nicotine, so we figured we’d best adopt the appearance of a popular bum subgroup: the youthful bum, aka, the street kid. Thusly, we used a fresh sharpie to scribble angst filled epitaphs on our clothing; adages, slogans, and jargon in the familiar vernacular of a young street resident. For example: I Hate Sosiety [sic]. Michael drew the anarchy symbol on his chest using a lowercase “a.” Annie wrote “Babies Are Stupid” in an ascending pattern up her leg and “WWBD” (What Would Bums Do?) on the back of her hand. I chose the linguistically confusing, “Fuck On You.”

We cut/poked/burned holes in our clothing. Michael tore the entire cuff from his jeans, only to tape it back on with duct tape. A ridge of safety pins stitched the back of my shirt together where I had torn it with artistic zeal. Annie ripped a hole over her left knee, letting her skin peak through the gash of frayed fabric. And to top it off, I emptied a quarter bottle of rubber cement on Michael’s shoulder. “What’s that supposed to be?” Michael asked. “Snot,” I said.

Preparations – Transportation:

We gathered a small backpack containing the previously mentioned essentials, selected a few blankets for sleeping, and prepared to embark. Then we realized: if we were to drive ourselves to Eugene, about an hour away, what would prevent us from getting back in our car and driving home midway through the night if we got uncomfortable? Chiding ourselves for our shortsightedness, we arranged to have a driver.

While our driver, let’s call him Jordan, was clearly surprised when he showed up at my house and the three of us were dressed, for all intents and purposes, in bum costumes, he was even more surprised when he heard our request: will you drive us to Eugene, drop us off, then leave? He was skeptical until he read the Bum Manifesto, which was apparently persuasive enough to get him to agree to our plan.

So we got in his car, said goodbye to our cushy world, and left town. The closer we got to Eugene, the more apprehensive we became about our experiment and the more amused Jordan became at our expense. Once we arrived, Jordan turned into a city park not too far from the U of O and eased to a stop, cutting the engine in the most crowded and populous spot.

It was mid-afternoon and the sun was high. Flowers pulsed with multicolored vibrancy and the laughter of children scattered in the distance, like leaves massaged from their branches by a breeze. I looked at Michael in the front seat, his face borax-white, the glue on his shoulder hardened into a walnut sized booger. Annie bit her nails, painted black for the occasion.

“We’re here,” Jordan said, reminding us of the obvious. A minivan pulled into the parking spot next to ours and leaked a stream of young children. “Aren’t you guys going to get out?” Jordan asked. So we did, hesitantly, like a six-limbed animal testing the surface of a frozen lake with its paws. We drew immediate stares, which only got worse when Jordan quickly backed out, gave three crisp honks with his horn, waved dramatically, then sped off. The three of us, the Alliance of Bum, huddled close in solidarity.

We must have looked exceedingly strange, three bizarrely dressed youths emerging from a station wagon piloted by a laughing Mormon. A young woman pushing a stroller approached. She was wearing headphones and had apparently missed our entrance. Annie, out of instinct, gave a pleasant “Hi!” The woman glanced up, smirked, then changed her angle to avoid us. “This is a bit awkward,” Michael said. Annie and I nodded. “Maybe we should go,” I said, lifting the backpack onto my shoulder, the Bum Manifesto, our one failsafe, secure under the can of chicken soup.

I didn’t specify where it was we should go, and my companions didn’t feel the need to clarify, but we simultaneously started moving away from the center of the park towards the wild outskirts, fat with blackberry bushes and pine trees.

And so our experiment began, the three of us, walking deliberately to nowhere in particular.